


Indulgences

by hello_imasalesman



Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Low INT Captain, M/M, PWP, Spoilers for the first half of The Empty Man quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: After the sizable fib that is Reginald Chaney, Max needs his Captain to forgive him.
Relationships: Male Captain/ Maximillian DeSoto, The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto
Comments: 19
Kudos: 195





	Indulgences

The Captain is stonily silent as they slosh through the shin-deep water of Fallbrook’s River, away from the cowering, but still very much breathing form of Reginald Chaney. Felix keeps nervously glancing between him and the vicar.

“Wow,” He laughs, “That almost got ugly, right?”

There’s silence. Felix tries again: “First time we haven’t rushed into a fight, huh? The guy would have had it coming, though.”

Captain Park grunts back a noncommittal answer. Max sighs.

“It’s for the best. Can we drop it, Felix?”

“Yeah, I mean, I was kinda hoping to sock him one, but I guess—“

“Can we drop it, Felix?” Park echoes, stopping in his tracks. Max doesn’t like his tone. Felix shrinks. The two of them were close— two oft-obnoxious, dimwitted C&P peas in a pod. Occasionally refreshingly insightful in their ignorance, but mostly annoying, especially in Mr. Millstone’s case. Usually they were the ones to gang up on him, overriding his levelheaded ideas in favor of whatever was louder and flashier—

But, from the glare the Captain spares him as he continues walking, he’s not on Max’s side, either.

He can’t blame him, exactly. He had, after all, been lying to the Captain from the time he saw the man wander into his church with a blood-crusted pulse hammer strapped on his back and Ms. Holcomb following hesitant on his heels. He had been lucky it was her whom he had been paired up with, instead of some of the other inhabitants of Edgewater; she barely knew him from the Architect’s first man.

But it had been a just lie, hadn’t it? The book— the book was in fucking French, a language on Halcyon only spoken in advertisement jingles for mockapple pie _a la mode_. His fault as well for trusting a convict, but he’s been searching for the answers since seminary, for twenty-four law-damned years.

As soon as they reach the shore, Felix is more than happy to split.

“I’m gonna, uh— head on out to the bar,” he jerks a thumb behind him. The vicar rolls his eyes.“I’ll meet you guys back at the rental later, depending on how many drinks I have, you know, don’t expect me back or anything soon, or—“ he doesn’t really end the sentence, more just backpedals away until he’s out of earshot, before turning and jogging down the road.

There’s nothing he would enjoy less than being stuck with Felix Millstone and a bunch of faux-rebellious Byzantium gold-bloods drunk off Spectrum vodka spritzers in a bar, but Max is half tempted to follow.

“C’mon,” As if he could feel Max wrestling with his thoughts, Park jerks his attention away, tilting his chin the opposite direction, towards their sublight-sanctioned rental. “We need to talk.”

The vicar sighs. “We do.”

He tries to make himself furious at Reginald Chaney for this, he really does. He’s been furious for fucking years. But he finds he doesn’t have any left in him, as if it drained out into the shallows of the riverbed.

Max had been ready to kill him, rend and tear. He had spent so much time imagining the ways he could inflict the kind of pain that could only pale to the feeling of holding that incomprehensible book in his hands. That’s what his mind kept going back to— the years wasted, the effort, the dogged study he went through, only for his last effort to be the punchline of some sniveling moron’s joke. And the Captain had held him back. Frankly, he hadn’t expected that; the man had a mean temper himself, quick to sour when pushed, turning to intimidation when needed. He would have figured Park would have encouraged him to rend that sorry excuse of a man in two.

Instead, he had grabbed Max’s shoulder, said in a low tone that Reggie wasn’t worth it, even as he glowered at the quivering man before them. He didn’t need the Captain’s presence to intimidate; he found himself quite confident in those matters alone. It didn’t hurt, however, to have the two of them doing so. (And Felix in the wings, puffing his chest and throwing out a “yeah, what, how about that” didn’t exactly help, but it at least did keep him occupied.) He’s seen Park crush marauder helmets like overripe nanners with a single swing. He was handsome when he smiled; but still in his wilds armor, over six foot with a buzz cut and the facial burn scars from a hibernation pod landing gone wrong— well. He didn’t blame Chaney. 

His Captain closes the door of their rental behind them. The click of the lock sounds louder than normal, especially in the tense silence between them.

It’s Max who breaks the silence. It’s easier that way to take control, speaking in a low and even tone, as if to a wounded animal. Park is certainly pacing around the small room like one. “I want to thank you for talking some sense into me back there with Chaney. It has been a long time since I’ve given into my... violent enthusiasm.”

“Cut the bullshit, Max. You lied to me?”

Max bites his tongue. “Not a lie, per se— well—“

“You think I’m a joke, ain’t you?” Park growls.

“Listen—” Max holds out placating hands, “You’re right. I apologize. I’ve been so focused on this, so focused on finding all of the answers—“ Stomach sinking, Max sighs. Even now, the raw anger hasn’t faded from the Captain’s face. The hurt. Now that he’s come clean, he does feel some guilt for his actions. They had been justified, of course, but he hadn’t meant to truly hurt anyone in the process, save Reginald himself. “I understand if you want me to leave. You accepted me into your crew, the friendship you gave me... but I hadn’t meant to betray your trust in that way.”

“Funny,” The Captain spits, “Didn’t mean to betray my trust by lyin’?”

“I’m sorry.” Max insists, “Captain—”

“I thought as a preacher man—“

“Vicar.” Max corrects.

“Vic-ur—“ Captain Park snaps back, mockingly, “Whatever,” he whirls on his heel, “I thought you types weren’t supposed to lie, and all that.”

“We try not to.”

“Try?” He scoffs, “And you did it— you did it so _smooth_-like, like you were telling the truth. Weren’t sweating none. What else can you lie about?” His frustration is bleeding out, “What else— like, are you even a vicar?”

Max sighs. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“And your name?”

His patience is growing thin. “I haven’t lied half as much as you think.”

“So that’s—!” He throws up his hands. “Fuckin’ half, then, Max, ‘cause I think you’re just a liar all around, one-hundred percent, so you lie about half of everything?”

“No, just this. And Captain, you must believe me, I regret it— I didn’t know you, and the rest of the crew, when I boarded your vessel like I do now.” It feels like pulling teeth, but it needs to be said. He’s not a sentimental man.

“That ain’t a good reason.” The Captain falters, “Good people don’t lie just ‘cause they don’t know someone.”

“I know. I’m not a good person.”

“Well, neither am I.” He stalks forward, “And if your laws are all about the strong surviving and the weak perishin’, and all,” the Captain leans in. They’re near the same height— which is to say, taller than most— but the Captain was broader in the shoulders and chest, and when he squared them—

It wasn’t fear. Though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a shade intimidated at the low timbre of his Captain’s voice, hushed and bearing the promise of violence as their noses just brushed: “Then it’d be downright holy to kick your law-forsaken ass.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Max holds his ground, feels his voice grow rough, the unspent adrenaline from earlier thumping behind the backs of his eyes, “Would that make you feel better, Park? ‘Kicking my ass’?”

He holds his stare. But then his Captain softens, flinches (at his name? Max can’t tell,) looking towards the ground. He takes a hesitant half-step back. “Naw,” his voice is soft, “That’d be real lowdown of me, real hypocritical. Especially after I just stopped you from doing it back there.”

He sags where he stands. Max feels a twinge of regret. His Captain is not a bad man, not at all. Quick to anger, but so was he. Captain Park was a hard, earnest worker. He practically trips over himself to help any person who crosses their path, even if he doesn’t always understand the implications of doing so. “Captain...” He grows quiet, “You owe me nothing. I know. I know this. I’m begging you for forgiveness.”

Park says nothing, just stares at the floor, and paces. Max shakes his head. “I promise you, from the bottom of my heart— as much as you and the rest of this crew are convinced I do not have one— I am sorry.”

The Captain is silent, for a moment. He stills. His dark eyes dart down, then back up. “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?

His lips. The Captain’s looking at his lips. Self-consciously, Max feels himself wetting them with his tongue. A nervous habit he’s always tried to rid himself of. “I can’t trust nothing that comes out of that mouth of yours.” Park jerks his chin up defiantly at him. “How am I supposed to know you won’t do nothing like this again?”

It would be easy to excuse his Captain’s wandering eye as simply that, a casual glance. Max crosses the space between them.

He almost looks shocked when Max lays his hand against his chest, unfurling his crossed arms, almost as if to push the vicar off. Max doesn’t give him time to react past that; he leans in, presses his lips to the Captain’s. It’s chaster than he means, closed eyes and closed lips. Park’s lips are chapped, but warm, and entirely unmoving.

Embarrassment starts to curl low in his belly. He pulls back, “I apologize, Captain, I thought—“

His curt defense is silenced as his Captain leans back in, kissing him with voracious, dizzying force. He can feel their stubble catch, scratching with each movement; he hasn’t kissed another man in years, since seminary, and he feels alight from the friction.

“Oh,” Park pulls back, and gives him such a dopey stare it makes his chest unexpectedly clench, “Vicar— I, uh—“

“Shh,” He’s quick to shush him, verbally and with another kiss. As inspiring as his Captain’s honesty is, he can’t quite take it now, not with his blood pumping in his ears the way it does when he’s swinging a tossball stick at a marauder. 

Park’s face shifts; understanding, accepting. Max kisses him again, soft and slow this time, the quiet, wet sound of their lips. His palms feel sweaty when he settles them against the Captain’s hips. He needs this, too, and he knows if he thinks too hard on it, like most things, he will talk himself in circles around it.

Park drags him back into the kiss, settles his big hands around his waist. His hands guide him away from the door, towards the bed. When his ankles hit the edge of the bed, he ducks down but not enough, swearing against the vicar’s lips as the back of his skull connects with a crack against the overhang. Max can’t help it: he laughs into his mouth, even as his Captain pulls him down.

“Fuckin’ smarts,” he mumbles against his lips.

The vicar settles nicely into his lap, legs straddling his waist. “You want me to kiss it better?”

“Does that count as a— what d’ya call it—“ The Captain punctuates his pause with a roll of the hips. The swell of his cock is unmistakable against Max’s ass. “A benediction?”

Max smirks. He can’t find himself annoyed by his Captain’s ignorance when he’s grinding against him like this. He’s ruching his vestments up with both hands, tugging at the worn dress shirt he wears underneath. “Something like that.”

“Let’s get this off.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Max has no qualms about the human form; if anything, he considers himself a fine example of being made in the Grand Architect’s image at his age. His Captain’s heavy lidded gaze rakes up his torso, followed by his hands.

“What do you like?”

Max hums, arches his back. “I’m adaptable.”

“What the— adaptable?” Park clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, befuddled annoyance written clear across his face, “I’m just askin’ a simple question— fuck, Vicar, what the fuck does that even mean—“

“You tell me, Captain.” The vicar interrupts, “Do you want to fuck me?”

His Captain groans low in his throat; his hands almost instantly become clumsier, pawing helplessly at the belt of Max’s pants, his fingers slipping under to touch the band of his underclothes. “_Yes_.”

He rolls his Captain over; it’s a tangle of limbs getting each other undressed in the single-sized bunk. Max nearly protests of his vestments hitting the floor in a wrinkled heap, but his attention is quite literally turned with his Captain’s hand squeezing the back of his neck, dragging him back into a kiss. It’s a kind of hard manhandling that makes his eyes slip closed. Park still tastes like purple berry crunch and the dregs of heavy adreno use still hanging in the back of his throat.

Park pulls back, squeezes the back of his neck, trails his fingers around against Max’s collar bone.

His hammer-calloused fingers are in his face. The Vicar sucks in a breath as his Captain traces his cupid’s bow.

“Suck.”

“That’s— undignified.” Max groans, unconvincing even to his own ears. His Captain smirks below him, a rare victory, running his thumb down from his lips to the cleft of his chin where the faintest stubble has grown in the days they’ve been traveling across Monarch.

“Sure is,” he tilts the vicar’s chin down. Max’s lips part. He swipes his thumb up, and the tip of Max’s tongue darts out— barely a touch, but by the way his eyes slit, he knows his Captain felt it. “Thought you were gonna be a team member now? An honest part of the Unreliable crew?”

When he presses that thumb to his lips again, Max takes it into his mouth. Warningly, he scrapes his teeth against the pad, and his Captain’s eyes flash dark. But it’s a warning, not a true threat, nothing he wants to act on— Max sucks, swirls his tongue around the pad of his finger; it’s salty and not altogether pleasant, but that’s half of the appeal, the way his Captain’s fingers clumsily curl against his tongue. His Captain has thick, thick fingers.

(Something he has _never_ noticed, of course not, never has the good Vicar even once fantasized about those fingers and how surprisingly deft they were at lock picking, the thickness of his knuckles—)

He pulls his thumb from Max’s mouth with a soft pop. “_Architect_.”

As much as Max would be willing to wet his Captain’s fingers until sopping, Park scrambles out of bed for something more substantial. He finds a tin of Spacer’s Choice lubrication in one of the drawers, forgotten from the last round of people to have moved through this space

Max is waiting for him on the bed. Captain’s fingers probe searchingly; Max spreads his legs a little more, sucks in a breath as his Captain pulls him apart and rubs his thumb in maddening circles over his hole.

“I’ll go slow—“

“Don’t coddle me.” Max nearly snaps, arches back against his fingers.“I’m not some starry-eyed school-boy still in seminary. You aren’t my first.”

Park chuckles throatily, pushing the tip of his finger in; the burn of the intrusion is welcome, pleasure curling low in Max’s gut. He takes himself in hand, strokes down and makes a show of it as Park works his fingers into him.

“Y’know,” Park sounds hoarse, “Speaking of seminal-ary.” If he wasn’t being mercilessly fingered right now, his Captain curling and pushing and _flexing_, Max would have the voice to do more than irritatedly groan, “Thought, uh. Thought men of the cloth were supposed to be chaste.”

“Not scientism,” Max gasps, the point and counterpoint of his stroking hand and his Captain’s fingers reducing his ability to speak, “I feel like that’s obvious enough at this point, and I’d prefer not to explain myself when you’re knuckles deep in m— Grand Architect _above_—“

The Captain twists his fingers again, and Max groans, half-collapsing in on himself and on top of him. “Fair ‘nough.“

He’s thorough, but quick; and Law, Max is thankful for that. He’s well-versed in his body now, at forty-two, and he knows what he can take, even if it’s been a while. And to be honest (which was the point of this excursion, wasn’t it,) he could be satisfied like this, stroking himself with the broad knuckles of his Captain’s hand bumping a steady tempo against him—

Against the back of Max’s thigh, Park has been grinding impatiently. He pushes himself up more onto his knees, and reluctantly Park’s fingers slide out of him. Blindly, he adjusts, angles himself back; he can feel the tip of his Captain’s cock bumping against his cheek, precum smearing across his skin.

With his other hand, Park lines his cock up. Max looks over his shoulder, audibly exhaling as the Captain’s dick slides between his ass. His breath catches. “Don’t be a fucking tease.”

“No?” The hand on his ass slides back to the cleft, pressing his thumb against him, “‘cause you ain’t seen teasing, not yet. I could finger your ass all night, vicar, ‘specially one like this, could spend all the time in the world stretchin’ you out until you were begging—“

He’s rubbing in slow, teasing circles, a constant motion, and Max thinks he will be driven mad by it. “Captain,” he interrupts forcefully, “Fuck me, please, ” and then, impulsively, leaving his lips before they fully register in his brain, he gasps, “Forgive me.”

His Captain’s movements stutter. “Yeah?”

That hit a nerve. Max licks his lips, ventures again, “Isn’t that what this is all about?” He rocks back, tries not to sound out when his Captain’s finger presses a little firmer against him. He’s aching now from the absence of anything in him. “Forgiving me for my transgressions?”

The Captain groans, clambers to line himself up. Max lowers himself as Park arches up, slides into him nice and steady, a hand to his hip. Law above, he’s sizable, and he feels him sink down root to tip, the heat of his hips flush against him. It has been— too long, embarrassingly long. Nobody in that muck stained town of Edgewater ever came close to interesting enough to be spared a second glance, though he thinks it laughable now that a line cook by trade and a Captain in stolen name only was the one to finally bring him to bed after such a dry spell.

“Good?”

“Move, damn you—“

And he does, he does, and Max groans and swears and nearly collapses against his Captain’s chest, spreads his knees akimbo as Park fucks up into him.

Max takes his cock in hand, stroking himself in time with his Captain’s upward thrusts. It’s not enough; Park, with a frustrated groan, grabs Max by the hips, and he’s too quick for Max to protest being arranged on the bed, face down and on his knees. It’s easier for Park this way, pistoning into him, the sounds of their bodies and breathing filling the room. With each thrust, his hand slides from his waist upward, settles to the base of his throat as he folds himself over the vicar.

The groan that escapes Max is automatic; his cock pulses in his hand as the Captain’s fingers lightly, experimentally, squeeze.

“Yeah?”

Max groans his approval, throws his head back to bare the column of his neck even more. Park wraps his hand around him, a warm, calloused heat.

“Forgive me, Captain—“

His thumb, still slightly slick with lube, digs into the hollow of his neck, presses down— the next breath Max sucks in is delightfully ragged, the pressure and pleasure of it zipping straight to his cock. “Louder.”

“Forgive me, Captain,” Max gasps, words stilted with each thrust, “Fuck, _fuck_, Law above, forgive me, forgive me—“

The hand around his throat tightens, presses in below his wildly bobbing adam’s apple. Each thrust punches the breath out of him, and each new intake is less than the last; he can feel his head swell, an intoxicating hum of static, his field of view narrowing and narrowing. He imagines if he dies like this, surely, that would have to be according to plan; at the moment nothing feels more right than being speared on his cock, gasping and scrabbling and begging for forgiveness, his ever-present thoughts clearing under the physical onslaught. All he can focus on is the Captain in him, the hand on his neck ever-tightening, the searing pleasure—

He tries to breathe again, and this time, the hand tightens like a vice. He gasps noiseless, breathless. He is dying, he feels, or something so exquisitely close to it.

“C’mon, vicar,” The Captain’s drawl break through the heady buzz, hot against his ear, “come for me.”

When he does, he sees stars, planets and galaxies— and for a moment, his body gives in, slumping in the Captain’s arms, falling forward with the next thrust. It’s a momentary blackout, and he comes to with the Captain thrusting into him, the pace increasingly erratic. He mouths at the shell of his ear, groans long and low as his hips stutter.

Max groans, but no sound escapes him, throat raw. It doesn’t help that the Captain has collapsed on top with his entire weight pressed into his ribs.

“Park,” he finally rasps. His voice is hoarse and foreign in his own ears. He feels weak as a newborn fuzzy cow, his arms trembling too much to even provide the strength to push himself up. “Captain.”

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, muffled against Max’s neck. He kisses it once— a decidedly tender motion against what assuredly will be very violent looking markings the vicar will have to turn up his collar as high as possible to hide. “Y’okay?”

“Yes, yes.” He clears his throat, but it does nothing for his tone. He braces himself on his forearms. The Captain fixes him with a balefully apologetic look. “I’m fine, thank you. No need to get soppy, now.”

“M’not.” Park protests, grinning dopily.

Max rolls his eyes and snorts. “Alright, then. Well.” He nearly smoothes a hand down the front of his vestments, except he’s obviously not wearing them— it’s admittedly strange, to be completely nude (And completely fucked through) with no crutches to lean on in front of the other. “I assume now all is forgiven?”

The most annoying thing about the crew of the Unreliable has been their predisposition to see right through him. The Captain, slowly dragging Max back on top of him with a shit-eating grin, is certainly no exception. “Hm, maybe. But I wouldn’t be opposed to hand out a little more forgiveness, if you’d accept it ‘n all.”

An unexpected shiver runs up his body as his Captain’s blunt nails rake down his back, gazing hopefully up at him. Law above and below. “I think,” He tries to sound dignified as his Park’s hands creep lower, “We may be able to manage one more one-on-one counseling session.”

—

In the next room over, with his pants shoved down around his thighs, Felix Millstone stares exhaustedly at the ceiling of his bed’s nook.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, pun neither realized nor intended.

**Author's Note:**

> i don’t feel like i have a great grasp on Max’s personality but that’s not gonna stop me! we out here using multiple names for a single person like we’re writing fic on ff.net in 2008, baby! no gods no masters! 
> 
> hope you enjoyed the read. Comments and crits and kudos all hugely appreciated; im hoping to get through my inbox soon and respond on the beautiful backlog of comments I have so it may take a while but thank you, thank you for every comment. :’)


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